


The Last Piece of the Puzzle

by Salon_Kitty



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blue Christmeth 2014, Gen, Mild Sexual Content, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3157406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salon_Kitty/pseuds/Salon_Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gus and Jesse talk on their long walk back to the border.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Piece of the Puzzle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Circled_sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Circled_sun/gifts).



> This gift is first and foremost for my recipient, **Circled_sun** , but upon viewing the prompts requested from everyone in the exchange, I noticed that one of her requested summaries seemed to follow several other participants' wishes. So, I hope my recipient doesn't mind this indulgence, but I attempted to incorporate not only her prompt, but also those of [panademonium](http://archiveofourown.org/users/panademonium) , [heyjupiter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/heyjupiter) , and [Star_sail](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_sail). Hope everyone gets something out of it.

 

 

 

“ _Vamanos.”_

 

Jesse begins an amble towards the long trek home behind the man who just cheated death. “What happened to the plane?”

 

“There are many good ways south. Unfortunately, only one way north,” Gus explains, appearing just as disappointed as Jesse feels. The adrenaline rush has long since faded after the madness of their escape, the race through the desert a dizzying blur as Jesse tried to follow the spare and pained directions from a bleeding Mike. Gus nods ahead. “Six miles to Texas. I’ve got a man there who will drive us the rest of the way.” Jesse thinks back to another hike in the desert, shuffling over unforgiving packed earth with Mister White trailing him, his heavy breaths turning to wheezes before they finished the first mile.

“I kind of like the plane,” he mumbles wistfully. He watches Gus’s measured gait, each step expressing some discomfort. “You gonna make it? Six miles is pretty far.”

 

“I’ll make it.” Gus speaks with a confidence that Jesse craves. There’s never a wavering doubt, and after that spectacular stunt he just pulled on the cartel, Jesse is not only terrified of the man, he’s more than a little impressed. He dosn’t imagine that even Mister White could think up something that elaborate. “You did well down here,” Gus continues, commenting to the plains in their path with vigor before turning to him. “And you also proved a point. I think you can run the lab by yourself, now. Don’t you?”

 

Jesse slows to a stop as Gus strides on unaware that his pace is no longer being matched. This isn’t a surprise, but it still stings. He can see Mister White’s face as he staggers up from the floor of his living room, the complete shock at the news that Jesse is done being his punching bag providing a passing pleasure even now. It was a bitter pill, realizing that Mister White didn’t care about him, only cared that Jesse did what he said. Yet, as much as he wants his partner out of his life, he can’t let the man be murdered. He owes him too much.

 

“Let Mister White go. Pay him off, or fire him. Don’t kill him.”

 

“You know that won’t work.”

 

“Then you’ve got a problem.”

 

Gus walks off, looking concertedly disinterested in discussing it further. Jesse tugs his jacket hem straight from under his backpack and lags behind Gus, the sun beating down on them with a surgical precision like they’re bugs under convex glass. It gives him a moment to think back on the flush of peril and triumph he experienced the day before; first with the chemists, and then getting his crew to safety. Part of his ego wants to revel in it, telling himself that he kicked ass down here, but the rest of him is just sick: sick for Mike, sick of the slaughter, sick of his own role in it all. He’s officially a killer now, another one of Gus’s guys in their black jackets and stiff backs, and Jesse instinctively straightens his shoulders, craning his neck to squint up at the cloudless sky through one eye as he walks on.

 

Gus does better than Mister White did and legs it almost an hour before he starts to struggle, bending over a few times with palms pressed to his lap as he huffs and coughs from exhaustion.

 

“You wanna take a break here?” Jesse suggests, pointing to the outcrop of a rock formation that can shield them from the sun. He’s already slipping his backpack off his shoulders. “We both could use one. I need some water.” Jesse grabs Gus by an arm and helps him over to a flat boulder carved like a chaise, its brother rock a towering, elegant screen that affords them a small pocket of shade. As soon as Gus is seated, Jesse kneels down and wrangles out a few bottles of water. He hands one to Gus, who wrestles off the cap with shaking fingers. There’s a t-shirt in the bottom of the satchel and Jesse pulls it out still folded and douses the neck with his own bottle. He presses it to Gus’s forehead as the man tips his head back to guzzle more water.

 

“Thank you,” Gus gasps, his breaths harsh and his eyes pressed shut against the sun’s glare. He pats the rest of the dripping sweat from his face with slow concentration.

 

“What was it you took, anyway?” Jesse asks, his curiosity having resurfaced. The speed with which it knocked flat even the largest of the Don’s generals ruled out ricin, but Jesse was not exactly up on his poisons. He remembers what he yelled to Mister White in his defense. _What was I supposed to do? Poison myself?_ But Gus did it without flinching. The guy was a robot.

 

“It does not matter now,” answers Gus, intuitively understanding the topic of Jesse’s question, “although it’s done some damage. There was something I took beforehand. To absorb the toxin and give me some time for us to reach the medical unit. But I was still very lucky.” He hands Jesse back the shirt, eyes locked to his. “I had the right people with me.” Jesse wants to believe him, and out in this desert, Gus staring into him with bespectacled gravity, there suddenly doesn’t seem to be any reason to doubt his sincerity. “You saved my life,” he continues. “And Mike’s. We owe you a great deal.”

 

“Whatever, man, you’re the one who set everything up. You had your doctor and his team ready; supplies, you even had our blood type available. I mean, who does that? You made sure you were getting out of there. You didn’t leave anything to chance.”

 

“On the contrary,” Gus says, “I left _everything_ to chance. Vuente could have waited to indulge in the tequila until a later date, on his own. You could have left me and my man there, where we would have surely expired. But you didn’t.”

 

Jesse realizes now that it was probably a stupid move. If Mister White got wind of this, he’d be mad all over again. Another opportunity to kill Gus that Jesse didn’t take. But he couldn’t have left Mike there to bleed to death. He just couldn’t. And truthfully, he doesn’t think he was ready to do it to Gus, either. It’s significant to Jesse that if he’d been shot instead of Mike, Gus would have been prepared to keep him alive.

 

“How’d you find out my blood type, anyway? The doctor told me stuff about me that I didn’t even know. Apparently, I’m allergic to something.”

 

“We had you checked out a while back” Gus states easily. “A review of your medical records was not that difficult to acquire.”

 

“Great,” he says, his tone as flat as the ground under his feet. “What else you know about me? Did you get all the important stuff? Like, when I did my first cook with Mister White? The first time I got a girl to give me a handjob? How far back are we talking?”

 

“I know enough,” Gus replies gruffly. He stands up with some difficulty and Jesse automatically steps close for Gus to steady himself on Jesse’s shoulder, dragging him up by an arm the rest of the way. “I know that you worry too much about things that don’t concern you.”

 

“Right. And how is letting you put a slug in Mister White’s brain none of my concern? I’d say it’s a pretty big concern. Like, epic.” He steers Gus back to the trodden dirt, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as they continue on the trail.

 

“Walter has chosen his path. You must choose your own. I am offering you an opportunity to take care of you and your family. They are the ones that need you most. Not Walter.”

 

Jesse’s blood turns to ice at the mention of his family and he stops walking, making Gus turn back to him. “What the hell does that mean?” he asks tremulously, his anger stirring. “Is that a threat? Are you threatening them?”

 

The expression on Gus’s face shifts to one of puzzlement. “I am not,” he says simply, before resuming his walk. That air of something genuine still lurks in his delivery.

 

Jesse follows along, now deep in thought. He runs a little to catch up with Gus. “Besides, my family doesn’t want anything to do with me. They don’t need my help. They can take care of themselves.” He hasn’t even thought about his dad in forever, and it seems strange suddenly. The man used to be in his head all the time, a constant disapproving presence imbuing Jesse’s every thought. He feels like he’s aged a dozen years since he last spoke to his father.

 

“I am not referring to your parents.” Gus takes another swig of water from the bottle. “The girl and her little boy,” he gasps once he’s finished. He faces Jesse. “They are important to you, yes?”

 

The chill in his veins is instantly warmed by a flare of alarm, the air disappearing from his lungs as Jesse visualizes a scene of Andrea and Brock getting the Gus treatment. “Of course they are,” he says in a rush. “Why? What do you know about them?” His panic starts to rise. “She doesn’t know anything,” he insists. “I never told her one word about what we do, I swear!”

 

“I know that,” Gus replies, calmly and with assurance. “But you provide for them, correct? You took them out of that ghetto by the train tracks. Put them in a nice neighborhood, so the boy can go to a good school, grow up in a good environment. You want to be with them because they make you feel valued. They are what make the rest of this worth the sacrifices. They are your family now.”

 

There’s the spark of recognition in Gus’s pronouncement. What he says appeals to Jesse, and he knows it’s true, that being with the two of them makes everything else bearable. He was just greedy before. And lazy – simply wanting money for toys and drugs because he didn’t want to put any effort into a real job. But knowing that the money can go to something good, that it means he can take care of people who care about him in return, is all that Jesse ever really wanted.

 

“Yeah, I guess so,” he adds, feeling a little overwhelmed for a moment. It’s a scary thought. He’s the one who fucks up, and fucking up Andrea and Brock’s lives is not something he wants to be responsible for. He knows intimately how great the consequences can be.

 

“When you have family, you do whatever you need to in order to provide for them. This is what it means to be a man. They give you everything, and you must respect that, always.”

 

Jesse gulps deeply, now listening intently. “Okay.” He’s suddenly curious about Gus, feels like he can ask him questions without repercussions. “What about you? Do you got a family?”

 

There’s a thoughtful pause before Gus finally answers. “My … wife and I are no longer together. But we have children. They are only with me for part of the year. The rest of the time, they live with their mother, in another country.”

 

“Does she know? I mean, about what you really do,” Jesse asks, surprised at his own forthrightness. “Is that why you split?”

 

Gus heaves a sigh. “There were many reasons. But yes, she knew from the start.”

 

“Really?” Jesse’s caught up in Gus’s experience. He thinks about Mister White’s wife, knows that she figured it out about the meth when they were having problems and Mister White was staying in that shitty motel apartment. He wonders if she knows about him, and what she might have thought of him once she realized he wasn’t Mister White’s pot dealer. “Isn’t that, like, _dangerous_? You having trouble with the cartel and all. A family is the first thing they’re gonna go after.” _I like doing business with a family man,_ he remembers Tuco saying. “Instant collateral, right?” he echoes.

 

“The benefits outweigh the risks,” Gus offers matter-of-factly. “They keep you grounded. As men, we need a family behind us, to give us focus. My children are innocent of my illegal business, of course, but my wife … she was a necessary part of it in the beginning.” He pauses again, a hitch in his breath. “You can achieve great things with a partner who trusts you… believes in you.”

 

Jesse’s thoughts swing back to Mister White again. Even when they didn’t get along, he liked to think that Mister White trusted him, at least, that they always had each others' backs. But he just doesn’t know anymore. _Go to Mexico_ , _screw up like I know you will, and wind up in a barrel somewhere!_ The words still hurt like an open wound, weeping with pus and acrimony.

 

“So … you think I should tell her? My girlfriend?” The idea is terrifying. He couldn’t imagine telling Andrea that he shot a man in the face. She’d never want to see him again, let alone get anywhere near Brock. She hadn’t even wanted her little brother around him.

 

“It depends. Does she have your heart?” Gus asks with grave seriousness. “If you plan on moving ahead in this relationship, there should be no secrets. It is important to have that one person that you can share everything with, every part of your life. With some discretion, of course.” He holds Jesse’s gaze for a moment before a small smile creeps along his face. “Well, it is something that warrants plenty of thoughtfulness, at any rate. It is a big decision. But you are getting better at those.”

 

Jesse trudges along with Gus, a new vista of possibilities opening before him like the desert stretched out for miles in front of them.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s dark out, but they keep playing, their groans getting louder every time Brock beats them in another round. Andrea smiles cautiously as she passes him the bowl of popcorn.

 

“You sure everything is okay? We can leave if you have stuff to sort out. You know … with that man.”

 

“Nah, I’m good,” Jesse tells her as Brock sets up the next game, the irritation left over from Walter’s earlier visit still popping out of him in spastic starts and restless jiggling. “Believe me, I want you here,” he adds, with a tentative smile of his own.

 

When the knock comes again, all three of them turn to stare at the door, and Jesse jumps up to his feet ready to kick Walter all the way down his front lawn if he has to.

 

“Maybe we should just igno –” Andrea starts but cuts off as soon as Jesse swings it open. Jesse has his teeth bared, is prepared for his simpering partner back on his doorstep, but there stands Gus, dressed in a suit and tie under his blue coat. Jesse’s anger swiftly turns to shock and he gawks at the figure there, not sure if Gus is even real.

 

“I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” the man begins. “I hope I am not interrupting anything.”

 

“Um,” is all Jesse can come up with for a stark moment. He’s on alert, his nerves snapping at him like barking dogs, but it’s Andrea who comes up behind him, puts a soothing hand on his back. “We’re, uh, just … you know, playing some video games,” he finishes lamely.

 

Gus smiles big as soon as he sees her, reaches across to Andrea to take her hand into both of his. “ _Hola_. You must be Andrea. I have heard so much about you. What a pleasure to see you here.” He backs down from the step. “I apologize. I did not know you had company with you, Jesse. It can wait.”

 

“Don’t worry about us,” Andrea pipes in. “You’re already here, don’t be silly.” She glances to Jesse, takes in his beleaguered expression. “Jesse, why don’t you invite him in?” she prompts.

 

“Oh, right. Yeah. Come on in,” he says as he waves to the living room.

 

“Really, I didn’t mean to bother your night at home. I just had some business I needed to discuss with you. I don’t mind waiting until tomorrow. I should have called first.” Gus isn’t moving, though, still standing in the same place with both hands clasped together.

 

“It’s no problem,” Andrea insists. “Mr. … I’m so sorry – I’m afraid I don’t know your name. Jesse doesn’t really talk about work.”

 

“Gustavo, please,” Gus says warmly, shaking Andrea’s hand again as he steps over the threshold. “It is my honor to finally meet you.” He looks beyond them to Brock sitting on the couch staring shyly. “And this strong young man must be Brock. Jesse mentions you all the time. You have many talents, he says.” Brock smiles, his lips pressed together.

 

The awkwardness heightens for Jesse as he struggles to come up with the right words to introduce Gus. What he’s told the man is true; there’s never any discussion with Andrea on what he does with his days, but here he is, put in the position of having to explain two men that he works with on the same night. And Gus presents himself as a perfect guest, a far cry from the frightened, battered visage of Walter inserting himself into their cocoon of domesticity only an hour before.

 

“Yeah, Andrea, this is … uh, my boss, Gustavo Fring. He’s, uh, he owns the Los Pollos chain. You know, there was one by your old house.”

 

“Oh. Right, I remember. We’ve been in there before. It’s … well, I didn’t …” Andrea looks just as confused, unsure of what to say. She points to the futon behind her. “Well, anyway, please – sit down. Brock and I can go get some food in the kitchen while you gentlemen discuss work. Can I get you anything, Gustavo?”

 

An hour later, and they’re all sitting around Jesse’s dining room table, eating a late dinner that Gus had delivered. Jesse feels like he’s stepped into soup, his thoughts cloudy and his uneasiness clinging to him like a wet shroud. Gus is sharing stories of the city he grew up in, somewhere in Chile, and every once in a while he and Andrea start chattering in Spanish very quickly, laughing at something that Jesse doesn’t understand. Gus is like a different person but Jesse attempts to play along, and soon, the night has worn away and Andrea needs to take Brock home, is smiling like he hasn’t seen her smile since before Tomas was killed, and Jesse wonders how she would look at this man if she knew just what part he played in her brother’s murder. The two of them leave, and then it’s just Gus and Jesse, alone in the room.

 

“What the hell was that?” Jesse asks. But Gus’s face has already lost all trace of merriment, all business as it returns to a blank mask.

 

“I need to ask you for another favor.”

 

* * *

 

 

The gun feels cold and unyielding in his grip, but it’s alive, pulsing, and then he realizes that it’s him that’s thudding feverishly not the instrument in his hand, his heart wrapped around the room that they’re standing in, his ears beating loudly, everything red in front of his eyes. Gus stands rooted as Jesse points it at him, implacable and calm. They can both see his hand shake, but he’s fueled with a rage that drags him into flames that are blistering, peeling his flesh away.

 

“Why did you do it?!” he screams. “He’s just a little boy! He didn’t do anything!”

 

“Jesse, I’ve told you, I don’t know what you are talking about. You need to calm down and explain this. What has happened to Brock?” Gus had just taken all three of them out to dinner the night before, and now Brock’s sick in the hospital, dying from the ricin. Jesse feels so stupid for trusting him, for believing him in the desert. Mister White had been right all along. Gus knew everything. He planned all of this.

 

“You _know_ what’s happened! He’s in the hospital, ‘cause you found out. About Mister White and me! You saw something on the cameras. And once you figured out how I was helping him, you searched my stuff, right? Is that how you got it? Had Tyrus go through my locker?”

 

Gus holds up a hand, palm forward. “Jesse, what is this you are going on about? I do not know why the boy is in the hospital, but you seem to think I have somehow harmed him. Why would I do this?”

 

“Because! You want Mister White dead! And I won’t let you do it, so you’re gonna make me think Mister White did something bad, like poison a little boy, so that I’ll go and kill him for you! Admit it! You’ve been playing me this whole time! Was that even a real robbery? And then you, coming over to my house? It was all just to make me feel like your new buddy, right? So that I’ll do what you want.”

 

He’s shaking all over, the light in Gus’s living room burning his eyes as he feels fat tears perched on eyelashes. He’d almost gone to Mister White’s house – had been ready to put a bullet in the man’s head, when it suddenly occurred to him who it was that just dropped an entire cartel with a shot of poisoned tequila, who it was that played fast and loose with kids’ lives.

 

“You say he’s been poisoned?” Gus asks this like he’s inquiring whether a customer at his restaurant wants the special sauce and not as if a man is ready to squeeze a gun into his face. “ _What_ did I find out about you and Walter? What has he planned?” There’s an edge to his voice now, cold and deep.

 

But Jesse dives in, no longer afraid, his righteousness searing it away. “We were gonna poison you, okay? I had ricin when I went over to your house that night. Mister White told me you were using me, and he was right. All I had to do was drop it in your food, and you would have been dead before the end of the week. And now it’s missing and Brock is dying! So tell me again how you don’t know anything!” He grips the gun harder, his hand cramping. “Go ahead, asshole!” Jesse can see the visions from the last time this gun was in his hand – the swampy feeling as shots were fired at him, his finger squeezing the trigger again and again until the man in front of him dropped.

 

Gus stares back at him, still intractable, but something resembling empathy in his eyes. “Walter put you up to this,” he says, clipping each word. “Walter sent you as my assassin. Of course. And what happened before we left for Mexico, Jesse? Where did those bruises on your face come from?”

 

Again, Jesse lets himself talk. Nothing matters anymore. Either Gus will be dead soon, or he will, but Jesse can’t forgive himself for dragging Brock into this.

 

“We had a fight. ‘Cause I didn’t do it fast enough for him. You made one pot of stew and I didn’t think I could do it; poison myself, but you did, didn’t you? And look at you now. Mister White was right again. I should have done it that night. Brock would have been okay.”

 

“Jesse, I need you to listen to me.” Gus’s voice booms through the house. “You must calm down and let me show you what has happened. You are not thinking straight. Walter has confused you. He is a very clever and persuasive man, and up until recently, he had a very strong ally in you, Jesse. You killed for him, did you not? At great personal cost to yourself. But things have changed. You have become your own man. And now suddenly this little boy has fallen ill, just when you were disobeying your master. Do you not think these two instances are related?”

 

But Jesse doesn’t want to hear this. He flashes on Saul’s office; the way Huell had suddenly decided it was time for a pat down out of the blue. But Saul was definitely in Walter’s back pocket; he was afraid of Gus. Once again, Gus has a thread of sincerity in his speech, but seems unsurprised that they were plotting to kill him. Jesse doesn’t know who to believe anymore, but he knows that Mister White put his own life in jeopardy to save his. He tries to listen to his conscience but the voices keep warring in his head. He wishes Mike were here.

 

“Mister White wouldn’t do this,” he says shakily. “You’re the one who told those bangers to kill a little boy. Yeah, you thought I forgot about that, huh! Brock's uncle, by the way. You think you’re gonna keep getting away with that? You think you can just kill off her whole family? You looked her right in the face! Said all those nice things to her! How do you even live with yourself?!”

 

“That never happened. I gave no such order,” Gus insists, punctuating each hard syllable. “Walter has smeared my name. I would never have a child murdered. Only a _puta_ would do such a thing. A worm. But we are wasting valuable time, Jesse.” He spreads his hands out in an open gesture. “How do you know the boy is dying from this – this _ricin?_ Did the doctors say this? If he has been taken to UNM Hospital, I am on the board. I can see that he gets the very best treatment, Jesse. But we need to know unequivocally what he was given.”

 

“I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that.” He doesn’t ease up on the gun, but he’s sweating, his hands slippery and hot.

 

“What can it hurt? To make sure he has the best medical attention? Only I can get this for you. But we need to find out the truth, first. Get the facts of the situation. Do you understand? You do not want to move forward with this until you have all the information necessary. I am asking you to wait, but for a moment. For the sake of the boy.”

 

It’s quiet as Jesse considers the request, tries to glean Gus’s game. Jesse wants Brock to be okay, wants it more than anything. “Yeah, he’s there.”

 

Gus points to a phone on a side table. “Can I call someone? I know the chief of Pediatrics, personally. I can make sure that Brock is under the proper care, that we have a direct line if there is any news on his condition.”

 

It all sounds appealing. Jesse lowers the gun just a fraction, his arm feeling weighted down by his guilt. That niggling doubt has wormed its way into his shoulders and his neck, crawling its way down his spine. Mister White has done some ruthless things before when he’s been cornered. Jesse can still feel the beat down Schrader gave him after Mister White pissed him off so bad with the crank phone call about his wife, sees his partner splattering that gangbanger’s brains to the sidewalk like it was nothing.

 

“You make one wrong move, I’ll kill you,” he warns. But he lets Gus make the call, listening to the one-sided conversation with an unflagging hope that everything will be okay, that Brock will survive.

 

Gus finally gets off the phone in what feels like hours later, studies Jesse with great concentration. “Did you say something to someone? About the ricin?”

 

“Yeah,” he says with a scratchy voice, his throat parched. “I told Andrea to tell the doctors. So they’d know what to do.” They’re both seated now, Jesse across from him in a dining room chair, his back stiff as he keeps the gun trained on Gus.

 

“You should stay here then. Do not go back to the hospital. The police will want to question you.”

 

“I don’t care,” Jesse sneers. “I need to be there. I have to know he’ll be alright.”

 

“They are testing his blood right now. Dr. Jimenez is seeing to the lab results himself. He has assured me he will let me know the moment they discover what it is the boy is suffering from. But … it does appear to be some kind of poison. They are monitoring his heart rate, to keep him out of danger.”

 

Jesse breathes a heavy sigh. He’s exhausted, his nerves making him feel sick, but he’s determined. “How long are you gonna go on with this charade? Just tell me the truth. You owe me that. You said I saved your life down in Mexico.”

 

“I did. And I meant it.”

 

“Then why would you do this?”

 

“You know the answer to that question, Jesse,” Gus says with certainty. “You know that you are accusing the wrong man.”

 

Jesse feels his heart splitting, an agonized groan wrenched from his chest. The tears stream down his face but he doesn’t care anymore, snot dripping to his upper lip as he tries to hold on. His shoulders shake with his despair. It can’t be true.

 

“You’re lying,” he tells Gus, but he sounds weary, feeble; he can’t stop himself from crying.

 

“Why did you not go through with Walter’s plan?” Gus suddenly asks. Jesse’s too tired to try and mask the truth.

 

“’Cause I didn’t want to kill anyone else. ‘Cause you and Mike made me feel … like I had potential. Like, you thought I was,” he swallows another sob, “ _worth_ something.”

 

“You _are_ worth something, Jesse. You are worth a great deal. Especially to me. I told Walter that you can never trust a junkie. But you showed me something. You showed me courage. And strength. What you did down in Juarez was remarkable. Why would I want to throw that potential away?” Gus’s rich baritone is soothing, enveloping Jesse in waves of feeling. “Walter is unpredictable – a vain, arrogant man in love with his own genius. But you, Jesse, you understand how this business works. I will not make this mistake again.”

 

“What mistake?” He sounds disoriented, and his vision blurs as he wipes at his face. The gun droops a little lower.

 

“I will make the right choice next time.” Gus gives him a long, meaningful look. “If there is a next time. I had hoped that we could enjoy a long and fruitful relationship, Jesse. Do not let Walter ruin this opportunity for you because of his weakness.”

 

“He doesn’t care about me.” Saying the words aloud has a power over him, and he dimly feels Huell pressing his fat fingers to his pockets again. Imagines Mister White talking to Saul, handing him the cigarette with great intensity. He even set Goodman up to deliver Andrea and Brock money once a week, giving him the perfect excuse to act as the delivery device, and Jesse is flooded by another round of corrosive guilt pumping into his veins like acid. Everything he’s touched has turned to shit.

 

“Not enough,” Gus adds. “But he does need you. Why do you think he would go this far to get you to kill me? Walter knows he has nothing without you. He is a desperate man. And desperate men will do anything they have to.”

 

_After everything you’ve done for me?! What you’ve done for me? You’ve **killed** me, is what you’ve done! You’ve signed my death warrant! And now you want advice?!_

Jesse stands up so fast the room tilts for a moment, but everything’s suddenly crystal clear. He turns away from Gus, heads for the door with a growing urgency.

 

“Where are you going?” Gus barks, but Jesse is already gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Eight months later_

“Yes, ma'am, that is correct. Flight 7902 on Lufthansa Airlines, arriving from Houston. Yes, I already spoke to his secretary, but I just need you to check the manifest. I appreciate that. I’ll hold.”

 

Mike turns to Jesse with a grimace as they sit in his Buick Le Sabre. They’re parked just outside of Loyola’s and Jesse’s stomach grumbles in anticipation, the sound prompting an agreeable grunt from Mike.

 

“Yeah, this’ll just take another minute,” he says, talking away from the phone. “Schuler is supposed to be here early tomorrow, but Gus wants to make sure everything’s copacetic beforehand. That reminds me, did you get your flight information for Wednesday?” Jesse gives him an affirmative nod and Mike’s sigh is long and aggrieved. “Gus’s girl there is getting testy. She tends to have her little meltdowns right before the bigwigs show up. You might need to back her off the ledge a bit.”

 

“Yeah, it’s cool. I think I’m getting used to her.” Lydia is wound tighter than anyone he’s ever met, even Mister White. But Jesse likes these little excursions to the Madrigal office, acting as a liaison for Gus. And now Fring is going to show him off to the head honcho. It’s enough to make his head spin.

 

Mike’s attention is diverted back to the phone call. “Okay. Uh, huh. You’ve been very helpful, Polly. And you have a lovely day, too. Make sure you try that new formula. Your cat will be doing better by the end of the week, I guarantee it.” He snaps his cell phone shut. “Alright. Let’s get some grub.”

 

Inside, things are contentedly quiet between them as they eat. Jesse’s mind is elsewhere when Mike nudges his coffee cup in his direction and Jesse realizes he’s been talking. “Huh?”

 

“The kid. Did you figure out what you’re getting him? His birthday’s next week, isn’t it?”

 

“Oh, yeah. It’s done. You’re still bringing Kaylee, right?” He likes having a reason for Mike to come over to the house. It doesn’t happen often enough, and there’s a panic he gets, in the middle of the night sometimes, when he thinks that he’s on his own. He won’t be able to breathe and Andrea will have to rub his back, murmur in his ear until he can calm down.

 

“She keeps asking me about it. I’ve got to warn you, though. It’s very important that you have chocolate ice cream available. You’ll be judged harshly on your cake side options. Kaylee takes her ice cream very seriously.”

 

“Chocolate ice cream, check. I’ll be sure to tell Andrea.” He scoops up some mashed potatoes, stares at the gravy pooling in the center dimple like blood oozing from a wound. He sets his fork down, suddenly not hungry anymore. “So, what am I supposed to do with Schuler when he gets here? Gus said he wants me to show him the lab, but … you know, I was never really good at explaining things. That’s more Mister White’s forte.”

 

Mike watches him for a long moment before speaking. “I think you’ll do just fine, kid.” There’s something soft in the way he says it, like he’s purposely trying to be kind, and Jesse feels a lump in his throat before clearing it away with a cough.

 

“Yeah, well, I hope he’s not expecting a lot. I don’t know, we’re going out to this, like, super fancy restaurant in Nob Hill. Like five stars. It’s French, so I don’t even know what I’m gonna order. Andrea made me buy a suit.” He shakes his head, scrunches his neck and shoulders in aggravation. “I wish you were gonna be there.”

 

“I’ve got business to tend to. And I’m not the main attraction, anyway. Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. Make sure your girl has a nice time.”

 

“Yeah.” Jesse knows that this is his life now, that he should be happy, but most times, it doesn’t feel real, like a part of him is trapped somewhere else and he’s just renting out another pair of eyes to peer through.

 

“And be good in Houston,” Mike says sternly. Jesse pauses before taking a sip of his coke, trying to gauge what Mike knows. “No farting around like last time. You were down there for two days when it should be in and out. We need you back here as soon as you’re done. Gus is on a tight schedule, which means you’re on one, too.”

 

“Fine.” Jesse’s eager to get outside so he can smoke and he starts tapping on the table to a familiar beat from his _TwaüghtHammër_ days. “Speaking of schedules, you done yet? You need to drop me off at the Laundry so I can get a batch done for tomorrow.”

 

“I like to let my food digest properly,” Mike grumbles. “You can wait a few minutes.” He glances up from his food, eyeing Jesse with wariness. “How’re things at home? You two doing good?”

 

“Yeah, of course.” Jesse bristles, instantly annoyed. This is probably the fifth or sixth time Mike’s asked him about Andrea since his last Houston visit. “Everything is awesome. We’re great.”

 

“She’s a little worried about you,” Mike tells him between sips of his coffee. “Says you’ve been having trouble sleeping. Nightmares, and such. Got anything you want to talk about?”

 

“She shouldn’t have said that.” He slurps the last dregs of his coke, sucking on an ice cube and popping it back into the glass. “It’s no big deal. I woke her up _one_ time. I’m fine.”

 

Mike studies him again and Jesse starts to squirm, wants to get up and leave. He looks down to see the gravy on his plate has congealed and he sees that puddle in his mind again, but this time it’s red and thick and spreading. He’ll breathe easier when this upcoming dinner is over and he’s in the air, on his way to Houston. He hears a whisper behind him. _You killed me, is what you’ve done!_

 

“You done yet?” he asks again, just to hear his voice and not Mister White’s.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 The elevator glides up slowly, like a submarine cutting through the depths of the ocean, and Jesse is turned around to gawk through the glass, watching the lobby and its moving inhabitants grow smaller. He never gets tired of this place. He feels like a rock star, like he’s as important as Gus insists every time he sees him. It’s a buoyant feeling, and Jesse grins to the ants below as they reach the thirtieth floor. There’s a ding as the doors whoosh open, and two more guests step in. The man stops talking as soon as he sees him, his grin fading quickly, but the woman just turns her back to him, not a stray hair to be had around her perfectly coiffed bun. Her dark eyebrows and dark lips are striking against pale skin as she partially checks over her shoulder, quickly facing the doors once again as her partner starts up a different conversation. They’re both dressed like they’re here on business, making Jesse feel slovenly in his jeans and denim jacket. The elevator continues its ascent, stopping after another half dozen floors, and the woman says something offhanded to her cohort before stepping out.

 

The man looks behind him at Jesse once she’s gone and their elevator has resumed its ride. He nods pleasantly, looks like he’s about to speak, but Jesse hears the ding and smiles tightly as he steps to the door, waiting for the halves to open up on the second subsequent floor. He nods as he leaves, turning immediately to his left and walking with quickened steps towards the stairwell. Jesse slams open the emergency exit door and jogs down the two flights, already pulling the card key from his back pocket as he presses down the bar on the door leading into the hallway. There’s the silent hush inside from being in a multi-decked building filled with padded floors, and he notes that the halls are empty before he strides forward, careful that he’s not seen. Jesse finds the room number and stops outside of the door to pull the knit balaclava from inside of his jacket, glancing around again to make another sweep.

 

Inside, he hears the television on, can hear someone tinkling about in the bathroom, and he stretches the knit stocking over his head and down his face, until he’s taking in the room’s interior through eyeholes. The heft of the steel in his pocket is cold in his palm as he pulls it out slowly; listens to the faucet being shut off while his nerves tighten like piano wires. He slides open the blade and it’s long and sharp, the gleam on its surface catching the dark wood of the room.

 

A door opens and then she’s walking towards the bed, her hair down and cascading over her shoulders. Jesse leaps forward, puts his hand over her mouth as he pulls her back into his chest. He holds the knife up to her throat.

 

“Shutup. Don’t make a sound. You try to scream and I’ll hurt you. You understand me?” He speaks roughly, his voice hoarse but deep. She nods fearfully, a tiny peep of distress sounding against his fingers. “I’m serious. Not one sound.” He holds up the blade and pushes her forward hard enough for her to tumble onto the bed. She rolls over, her eyes huge, her silk blouse stretched at the buttons and her skirt ruched up at her thighs. One of her expensive high heels drops to the floor as she pulls up a leg.

 

“Please. Don’t rape me,” she begs. “I’ll do what you want. Just promise me you won’t hurt me.”

 

“I’m not gonna promise you anything, lady.” He jumps on the bed, sits astride her waist. The woolen knit of his mask is itchy on his face. “But you’re going to do everything I say. Open your blouse.”

 

She does immediately, her gaze never leaving his eyes as nimble fingers pluck at the buttons, the knife in his hand virtually ignored. Her black hair fans over the pillow as she leans back. “What are you going to do to me?” she asks, her voice throaty and sensual.

 

“Whatever I want, bitch,” he tells her. “Spread your legs. Now.”

 

“Are you going to rape me?” she asks, almost insistent. He’s forgotten the script.

 

“Oh, I’m going to rape you alright. I’m gonna rape you so good.”

 

There’s a flash of annoyance on her face, those distinctive brows furrowing together, but he ignores it, wielding the knife above her in as threatening a manner as he can. For one brief second, another face flashes in front of him, the expression frozen in a death grin of surprise, but Jesse closes his eyes and shakes the image free. He rips the blouse wider, paws at the black satin bra underneath as an old fury washes through him, and then he’s sliding the blade under the thin strap of the bridge.

 

“Wait! No –!” But he’s already cut through it, the cups with their ornate garland stitched across the edges springing back to reveal her bare breasts. He stares at the flesh exposed and tries to muster up that thrill from the first time they did this, but he’s feeling light headed and the room swims around him.

 

“Oh, come on! Did you _seriously_ just do that? What did I tell you before? Do you have _any_ idea how much I spent on this one? It’s La Perla, for God’s sake!”

 

Jesse pulls off the balaclava, sucking in deep breaths. “What? I did what you asked for!” he complains. He jerks his arms behind him as he tries to shake off his jacket, desperate for the subtle waft of the air-conditioner to chill his skin. He’s burning up, his heart starting to pound in his ears. He slides off of her, slumps to the bed and rolls onto his back. “Jesus, I’ll buy you a new one.”

 

“It was four hundred dollars!” Lydia shrieks as she rises from the bed, trying to hold her bra back together as she heads for her purse on uneven steps, one shoe missing while the foot still inside a high heel totters along.

 

“Who the hell buys a four hundred dollar bra?” he bellows back. He bends the blade of the knife back into its handle and drops it to the floor with a thud, sweeping his hands over his face when he’s done. “Look, I’m sorry I messed it up. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” He raises himself off the bed to see what she’s doing, but she’s disappeared into the bathroom. “You still want to have sex or what?”

 

“Not right now,” she fusses through the open door. “You've ruined the mood.”

 

“I said I was sorry!” he whines. But she’s not coming out. Jesse throws his head back on the pillow with a noise of disgust in his throat. She can be so picky about every goddamned detail. He focuses on the television and starts watching the news.

 

By the time she comes back out, she’s wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair scooped up in a chignon. Lydia flings the severed bra at him, the back piece hooked together. “I expect a flawless performance next time to make up for this,” she tells him indignantly. She picks up the remote for the television and mutes the screen.

 

“Whatever. I’ll buy you another one online and have it mailed to you.” He might as well get one for Andrea, too. He always brings her back something expensive from these visits. And makes sure he’s super extra-nice to her for a few days.

 

She sits next to him on the bed and runs a hand over his thigh, patting it lightly. “How did the dinner go? Did he like you? Gus said he liked you. But he thinks everyone likes you.”

 

“Really?” His tone is sarcastic. That doesn’t sound like Gus, at all. “I don’t know. I guess. The guy didn’t say a whole lot. And the dude he brought with him –”

 

“Herr Muller. Wolf Muller. He’s closely connected to our CEO. Not with Madrigal, exactly, but he's an important figure.”

 

Jesse frowns at her. “Yeah, I was getting to that. Anyway, he talked a lot but I could barely understand him with that accent. Gus spoke to them in German sometimes, but I don’t know if that’s ‘cause it was easier, or if they were talking about me, all, surreptitious-like.”

 

Lydia gives him an approving smile and Jesse feels a little lift in his chest. She’d used the word the last time they spoke and he’d made sure to look it up on his phone’s wi-fi the minute he was back in his own hotel room.

 

“I wouldn’t worry about their conversation. Gus is always a perfect host. He wouldn’t do that sort of thing. Not with someone he’s grooming. He wants you to look your best in front of them; he wouldn’t do or say anything to demean you. You’re the face of his brand.”

 

“I don’t think he thinks about me the way you think he thinks about me,” Jesse tells her. Gus can be a ball-buster when he wants to, as tough as Mister White, sometimes.

 

Lydia smiles again but its tight and unpleasant, as she leans over to tap him on his chest with a long, manicured nail, polished a Gothic red. “I know _exactly_ how he thinks about you,” she says smugly, talking over his head again. Whenever she discusses Gus, he gets the distinct feeling she knows a ton more than he could ever hope to. And Gus has shared a lot with him. The nail slides down his torso and travels over the bumpy plains of his jeans placket. She reaches in to unzip him. “When do you have to be back?”

 

“I’m on strict orders. Mike will be waiting for me at the airport tonight.”

 

Her nose crinkles with distaste as she zips him back up. “Well, that’s unfortunate. But I’m not surprised. You need to be more careful.”

 

“Gus doesn’t know anything. About us. I told you, we’re cool.”

 

“He’d better not,” Lydia snaps. “But I’m hardly going to leave it to you to make that assessment.” She stands up. “I’ve got the external hard drive and the SD cards for you to take back. They’re in the briefcase.”

 

Jesse reaches up to grab her hand and pulls her back to the bed, pressing her palm to his zipper. “Hey, business later. We still got this room for another four hours.”

 

She sniffs at him with a cold reproach. “You know that’s not how this works, Pinkman.”

 

He likes the way she calls him that; business-like, official. "Well, we can try it the other way. I know you like that one. Did you bring the gun?"

 

Her forehead creases in confusion as she stares back at him. "Are you kidding? After the last time? I don't think that's a good idea."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Lydia gapes at him for a second before snapping her mouth shut, makes another attempt to get off the bed.

 

"Your ... reaction. Are you telling me you don't remember that?" She walks to the table and fishes through her purse for something, her back to him.

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jesse says. There's a pulse behind his eyes, a remembrance of something disturbing, Lydia's horrified expression, but then it's gone.

 

Lydia takes out a pill bottle and pops something into her mouth, grimacing with her swallow. "Your old teacher. Former partner, whatever he was." She locks eyes with him. "Your ... parting of the ways, as it were. I heard you had a tough time with that."

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jesse repeats in a robotic monotone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He’s waking up slowly, light pressing against his eyelids as sound filters into his consciousness. There’s talking above him, somewhere in whatever room he’s in. It’s fast and lyrical, one voice high and feminine, the other a deep burr, and he knows they belong to Andrea and Gus. They’re talking in Spanish, so he has no idea what they’re saying, but he knows it’s about him; her notes strained and passionate, while Gus speaks in soothing, placating tones.

 

Someone has moved close to him, brushes their fingers across his forehead gently perhaps to push away his hair. It smells like Andrea, but he doesn’t want to wake up just yet, isn’t ready to talk to her. He’s tired, wiped out, like he’s coming down off the mother of all benders, and then he remembers. The blue. Crunching it under his lighter, feeling desperate and crazed, knowing he was destined to get himself into a world of trouble but doing it anyway – the burn in his nostrils like a welcome from an old friend and then the familiar drip down the back of his throat.

 

After a while, Andrea’s voice has been replaced by a grumbling cadence. Mike must have been called. Jesse needs to be handled, dealt with.

 

“You should take the girl home,” he hears Gus say. “I will take care of this.” The response is garbled at first, and Jesse strains to listen, needs to know that Andrea is being taken back to the house. He can’t look at them right now, either her or Brock. Can’t stomach the look of disappointment he expects he’ll see in their eyes. He’s seen that look before, too many times, on other faces. He’s used to it, but that doesn’t make it any more palatable. Someone shifts closer to him; he can feel a heavy presence.

 

“I found him at that dive motel he’s partial to, the one over on Central. Good thing he had his phone on him for me to track. Lydia says he left her around two, and assumed he made it to the airport on time, but … well, I must have missed him ducking out on me, boss. It won’t happen again.”

 

“We should have anticipated this. There’s been no process for him. It was inevitable.”

 

A heavy sigh from Mike. “I don’t know, boss. The kid’s been fine – was fine – until the last month or so. I’m not sure what prompted it, but … I don’t think him playing courier has been too helpful to his state of mind. I think he just needs to avoid Houston altogether. He shouldn’t be on his own.”

 

When Gus speaks, it’s from farther away, and Jesse hears them leaving the room. He knows he’s fucked up, but part of him is glad for it. At least it’s familiar, the way everyone is reacting. But with Gus, he has no idea what to expect as a punishment. He wonders if Gus will kill him, and that wretched part of him throbs with something hopeful, wishes for an end to this. It’s not practical, though, and he knows that that’s the first thing Gus will think about. He’s an investment, and Gus has already spent a lot of time and money on Jesse.

 

It’s quiet again. Jesse thinks he may have dozed off briefly, but then someone is touching his face. A hand strokes his cheek, cups his jaw, and the gesture is so tender and soft that the sadness bubbles into his chest faster than he can suppress, and it breaks free, rips from him in a mangled sob before he realizes what’s happening.

 

“I know you are awake, Jesse. It is time to get up.”

 

Jesse opens his eyes. Gus is staring down at him, showing some concern on that chiseled mask. When Jesse sits up, the room spins for a moment and he puts out a hand to stop it, the dizziness accelerating for a second before Gus’s hand is wrapping around a bicep and is pulling him forward. Through the fog, Jesse understands that he’s in someone’s bed, that Gus wants him to sit on the edge, and he clutches the mattress piping under the sheets in a death grip to keep himself from tipping over as his legs swing down the side. A glass and capsule are held out in front of him, and Jesse reaches for them with shaky hands. He pops the capsule into his mouth and downs it with the water, then watches as Gus drags a comfortable chair from the corner of the room and parks it in front of him. Gus looks unruffled as he sits down, wearing some Dockers and a sweater, the unbuttoned collar of his shirt poking stiffly through the neck.

 

Gus’s gaze never leaves Jesse, even as he straightens the wire frame of his glasses. His hands fold together and perch on his lap.

 

“How are you feeling? Better?” The voice is still soothing. It seems Gus is going to go with the concerned dad routine.

 

“I guess,” he answers, sounding hoarse. He swallows painfully. “What happened?”

 

“You know what happened,” Gus sniffs. “You disappeared from the airport. You’ve been missing for several days. Mike brought you back last night … full of that _shit_.” He pauses to look down at his knees, brushes away a bit of fluff. “You had everyone worried. Andrea was beside herself. If that was your intention – to upset us all – then you were quite successful.”

 

“I guess I backslid,” he croaks. “I’m an addict, what do you want? It’s a disease, right? It’s not my fault.”

 

“That is no excuse. A man takes responsibility for his actions.”

 

Jesse isn’t in the mood for another one of those speeches. “Whatever. I guess I ain’t _man_ enough for you, then. Maybe I need to go back to rehab.”

 

“No.” The concerned dad is gone and Gus is back to business, uttering his decrees with authority. “You stay here.”

 

“What do you mean? Like, here?” He points at his surroundings. Jesse’s never been inside this room before, but he knows he’s in Gus’s house. It’s always got that faint, lingering smell of cooking and spices.

 

“Yes. It has been arranged. You will stay with me for the next week while you … recuperate. I can’t have you working on a cook in this condition.”

 

Something important floats in Jesse’s head, rising to the surface, and he grasps it, tries to see the message. “Um, there’s … I got Brock’s party coming up. I can’t stay here. He expects me to be there. We’ve got guests and everything. You said you were coming.”

 

“You should have thought of that before,” Gus says with an air of superiority. “We will have to see. It all depends on you, Jesse.” He hears the whisper behind him. _No, you are not good right here. You are not good at all, son._

“Sounds like I don’t got a choice,” he spits out, feeling suddenly angry and irritable. He wants his pipe. Needs another toke on his crystal; the last batch was almost as pure as Mister White’s. It warrants a celebration.

 

“You always have a choice, Jesse.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When he wakes up again, he feels different. His limbs are heavy, like he’s magnetized to the bed. He sits up groggily and takes a look down at himself, notices that he’s wearing pajamas. They’re silk, in a powder blue. He doesn’t remember changing into them and that detail is disorienting and violating at once. Jesse wipes the sleep from his eyes and looks around the lightening room, small clouds of dust motes sprinkling like snow where the sun peeks through the blinds. He hears the chink of china plates or glass, and then the door opens and Gus is walking in holding a tray, assaulting him with the smell of eggs and bacon. The aroma tickles all the way up his nose and his gorge rises for a moment.

 

“Good, you are up. How did you sleep?”

 

Jesse shrugs. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and he assumes Gus gave him some sort of sedative the night before. Gus brings the tray over and sets it on Jesse’s lap. There’s coffee and toast, as well. Jesse can’t even look at it without feeling ill.

 

“You need to eat something,” Gus tells him, as though he’s privy to Jesse’s inner monologue. “It might not look appetizing, but it will do you good. Who knows when you last had food in your system. We need to bring back your strength.”

 

“I’m fine,” Jesse says automatically.

 

Gus peers into his face. “No. You are not fine.” He pulls a cloth napkin from under the silverware and unfolds it, snaps it open to spread across Jesse’s lap. Gus spends a few moments adjusting the pillows behind Jesse’s back, propping him up until he’s comfortable. Jesse leans back, watches Gus carefully, waiting for him to strike.

 

But Gus simply sits back in the chair across from him. Jesse picks up a sliver of bacon tentatively, sniffs it to see if it can make it past his lips. He crunches on the end and it tastes like soot in his mouth. Jesse takes a sip of his coffee to wash it down, then forces himself to take another bite while Gus gives him a cold, approving smile.

 

“Very good. We need to get you healthy again. Flush that junk out of your body. I have some wheatgrass for you to take later, but I thought it was important to feed you first.”

 

Jesse drops his fork to the tray with a clatter, glares at Gus with impatience. “Look, drop the nurse maid bedside manner, alright? You’re not my mom. I fucked up. We both know it. So, what are you gonna do about it? Just tell me straight.”

 

There’s a long pause as Gus studies him, making Jesse want to jump up and scream, to grab Gus by the shoulders and shake him like a rag doll. _Tell me what happened! Tell me!!_

“I have told you. You will stay with me for a while. Until we can get you back to where you were.”

 

Jesse’s not buying it. “Seriously? Like, _that’s_ it? I’m supposed to believe that me dropping the ball like that is all okay with you? That your “ _appropriate response”_ is to make me _breakfast?_ Please. If you’re gonna go boxcutter on my ass, just do it now. Don’t play me, Gus.”

 

“Why would I do that?” Gus asks, looking bewildered. “Even on the most basic level, it would be foolish to do so. I have no replacement for you. My business would cease.”

 

“Right, like Walter wouldn’t come crawling back if you gave him enough money.” His teeth hurt just saying the name, but seeing Gus’s expression freeze up is what he’s been angling for. “Yeah, you thought I forgot about that, huh?”

 

“Jesse,” Gus begins softly. “You need to stop this.”

 

“Stop what?” He’s shouting now, his body feels hot. “Stop acting like I don’t get what’s going on? You wanted to drive a wedge between us! Well, you won! You wanted _me_ to be your pony boy, and that’s what you got.” He spreads out his arms. “Here I am! And now, now you’re setting me up, parading me around just waiting for me to fuck up, so you can bring him back. Just admit it, already.”

 

“Jesse, enough!” The command is a deadly scythe that cuts through his whines. “No more. It is time for you to deal with the truth.”

 

“Yeah? And what truth are we talking here? You ever going to tell me?”

 

“Jesse, you know there is no one else. You have performed better than I could have ever asked for. I am not plotting against you. This rambling nonsense – it is the drugs that are talking. They have made you paranoid.”

 

“Jesus, you really think it’s the drugs making me paranoid? We’re not even talking but a few days. I’ve spun out longer than that before. This ain’t no leftover tweaking, this is me seeing things the way they really are. I mean, what do you want from me, anyway?”

 

“You know what I want.”

 

“No. It’s more than just cooking. You … you want me to be this other person. Like Walter. A family man. Respectable. Someone who can talk to your fancy friends. But that’s not me. You don’t really want me. You want Walter. So just tell me.”

 

Irritation skates across Gus’s features before he molds them back into one of empathy and understanding. “Jesse, you know the truth already. You need to say the words.”

 

“I _am_ saying them.”

 

“No, you are not. I don’t want Walter. I want you. Do you understand?” He holds Jesse’s gaze, searches his face before taking a breath. “But I couldn’t have the man work for me even if I wanted it to be so.” Gus stands up with a sudden purpose and takes hold of the tray on the bed, moves it out of the way onto the floor. He sits down on the edge, next to Jesse, rests a hand on his arm. Where Gus touches him, a trickle of ice worms its way across his flesh, rapidly racing up to his shoulder, and Jesse holds himself still, waits for what Gus is about to tell him with a dread that makes him grit his teeth hard enough to crumble.

 

There is a long pause from Gus before he looks up, into Jesse’s face, and stares unblinking into his eyes. “Walter is dead, Jesse.”

 

Instantly, Jesse rips his arm away, holds his hand up to his throat. He starts to shake his head. It’s not true. That can’t be true. “No,” he says, shaking his head harder. “No, no, no,” he insists, like Badger’s trying to tell him that Sonic ’06 trumps Sonic in Sega All-Stars _._ “You’re lying. I would’ve … no.”

 

“You would have what?”

 

Jesse presses his hands to his face. He can see the blood pooling, spreading across the carpet and he digs the heels of his palm deeper into his eye sockets, trying to push the image out.

 

“I would have known,” he gasps. “It’s not … it can’t be true.”

 

“But it is, Jesse. You know this.”

 

He drops his hands, glares angrily at Gus. “How?! When did this happen? _Why didn’t anybody tell me?!_ ”

 

Gus scrutinizes him through another interminable pause, finally glances down at the floor. “We didn’t want to upset you.”

 

“Are you kidding me? How could you keep this from me? _All_ of you?” He can’t believe Mike didn’t say anything. An image of Mister White in the desert pops behind his eyes, wearing that makeshift turban with blood on his lips. “Was it the cancer?” he asks, his voice echoing in his ears like it's coming from someone else. Yes. Mister White was dying of cancer. That’s what killed him. It had to be the cancer.

 

“Yes,” Gus says quietly.

 

Grief washes over him in a mountainous wave. He drops his face into his hands again, feels his body shaking. It’s coming, it starts to come out of him, like a bullet spiraling up from his gut, and then it’s in his throat and there’s a sound that leaves him, a sound that isn’t human. He opens his mouth, he can’t breathe. Jesse struggles for air, the weight on his chest crushing him.

 

“Jesse. Look at me.”

 

But he doesn’t want to, tries to turn away from him, and those sounds continue to claw their way out of him as he fights. Gus is trying to grab him at the shoulders but Jesse can see it again. Sees Gale’s face, that frozen look of surprise staring back at him, but then it’s not Gale anymore, it’s Mister White. Thickening blood seeps into the carpet. Jesse’s moans carry through the room, and then someone is holding him, his nose pressing against a shoulder. He lets his anguish loose. Let’s everything leave him as his arms squeeze tight around the body holding him. _Put your arms around me. Come on. You’re gonna stand up. We’re going to walk out of here, okay? We’re gonna take you someplace nice and safe._

A gunshot goes off, but it’s only ringing in his head, a steady hum reverberates from the echo. He hears it go off again and his sobs come harder, like they’re pieces of him, chunks of his body being strewn apart in a wreckage.

 

Gus rocks him steadily as Jesse cries. “It will be alright,” he murmurs over his head. Jesse doesn’t know if he can believe him. “You did what you had to do,” he says. Lips press softly to his neck.

 

He hears someone snarl behind him. _Do it!_

Jesse squeezes his arms tighter and holds on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He stirs from sleep again. It looks like its dark outside, and there’s a small glow from the lamp on the dresser. Someone is sitting in the chair next to him, and Jesse rubs at his eyes, expects to see Gus there. His vision clears and he sees Mike instead.

 

“Hey,” he croaks.

 

“Hey, yourself,” Mike replies. He flattens his newspaper, looks over the tops of his glasses. “You doing better?”

 

“I guess.” He feels exhausted. “Is Andrea okay? Did you take her home?”

 

“I did. They’re both worried about you. Brock is afraid you’re going to miss his birthday.”

 

Jesse tries to smile, but it hurts, still. He thinks that things could have been different. That Brock might never have made it to seven. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he tells Mike.

 

“Well, that’s good. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear it.” Mike watches him, utters a sigh. “You know, you’re very important to that little boy.”

 

“Yeah. I know.”

 

“You’re important to a lot of people.” Jesse doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s the crumple of the newspaper as Mike folds it up. “So,” he says pointedly. “You think you might get up one of these days, and step back out in the real world, or you gonna keep laying around in your pj’s like the Queen of England?”

 

Jesse thinks back to something he once said. _You either run from things, or you face them, Mr. White. I accept who I am._ He shifts his legs over the side of the bed, rubs his face again. He remembers who he is now.

 

“I’m stepping back into the real world."

 

 

 

 


End file.
